Day 15 Making tracks

I forgot, perhaps on purpose, to mention the road-kill, a fine variety, ground hogs, possums, squirrels, armadillos and yesterday, a man. Lying, rag-doll, between two police cars on the verge, he wasn’t going anywhere and the ambulance that came wasn’t in a hurry. I don’t know why this slipped my mind, perhaps out of respect, perhaps out of self preservation, perhaps I’m forgetful.

I awoke to the tyranny of another hangover and the duty to record the moments before they slip into the foggy past. Just enough time to adjust the pedal for the linked brakes to reduce the travel and encourage me to use it more. The bar lever is harsh and I should have addressed this earlier to better enjoy the twisty bits. Chattanooga wasn’t my kinda town, too developed and spread out, and I intended to put some miles between us. A choice of routes, the southernmost shirting Georgia, crossing into Alabama, passing this (slightly wonky – sorry) space facility and on into Mississippi.

The day’s heat was quenched by rain as I ploughed on, the drops stinging my face below my visor forcing me to rest my chin on the tank bag to seek shelter behind the, itsy-bitsy, bikini fairing. There is something to be said for straight roads and letting her have her head, spinning up to 5000 rpm in 4th gear made her happy and held a steady 80mph, ish, officer? Memphis bound, the plan was to check out Beale St on Cameron’s recommendation, how could he know, so many miles away, that Memphis was booked out. A music festival weekend and chaos on the streets and hotel booking systems, I booked two different rooms, one in a place with a guitar shaped pool, only to be told that the computer says no. Eventually, in the dark, I booked another, way out of town in Forest City Arkansas and made the precarious journey up the old Route 40 through juicy swarms of insects, between wet fields guided only by the light of my
LED running light, the headlights, neutral lamp and speedo illumination having chosen this moment to cross to the dark side and fail me.

Eventually I drew up at the Day’s Inn, which was unfortunate because I had actually booked the Wyndham 10 miles away in Wynne, it was late, I was tired, and having fixed the lights by twisting a corroded fuse and washed, I headed to the bar, possibly the only one for miles and thronged with an already pissed Friday night crowd. I chatted with an engine builder, David Posey and drank, two bucks a glass, beer making the most of the extra hour that crossing into Central Daylight Time allowed me. The bar had a ‘No fighting’ sign, someone had presumably taken it outside.